


Sian Leat

by justbreathe80



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-15
Updated: 2009-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbreathe80/pseuds/justbreathe80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The uniform itches. It always has, since he was twenty-two years old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sian Leat

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write this fic since I saw "Sunday," and I finally did. Spoilers through that ep.

The uniform itches. It always has, since he was twenty-two years old. John can't help but tug on his collar constantly, trying to separate the unforgiving fabric from the sensitive skin of his neck. As soon as they're through the gate, he wants nothing more than to take it off, get back down to the t-shirts and cargo pants that he's pretty much been living in for the last three years.

But Landry's there - O'Neill's there too, but he looks just as stiff and out of sorts in his own dress blues - and John knows that Landry stands on formality. Ronon's trying hard not to look freaked out by the fact that he can _sense_ that they're deep underground and Rodney looks like his tie is choking him, and he's not sure what to do with his hands now that a new group of Marines has taken the coffin from them.

"We'll go with him," John finds himself saying, and he didn't know that's what he's planning to do until he says it. "Rodney and I, to Scotland."

Landry's face is pinched, but O'Neill nods and pats him on the shoulder, just a little too hard. "We'll make the arrangements."

Ronon's close to John, right over his shoulder, close enough to almost feel Ronon's harsh breath on his shoulder. John had forgotten about him, and knows he can't send him back through the gate like he doesn't matter. Like Carson wasn't something to him, too. "Ronon, too." John squares his shoulders, ready to fight if he has to. Landry's mouth opens, and John knows the protest that's coming, but O'Neill cuts him off. It occurs to John that O'Neill must know what it's like to lose something, like this, and the weight John carries.

"He can go, but he can't go in the leather." John almost cracks a smile, and it feels like a betrayal, especially with Rodney's sad, blue eyes looking at him. Lorne agrees to take word to Elizabeth, and goes back through the gate. John nods, and gestures at Ronon to follow him, down the labyrinthine hallways to John's assigned quarters.

*****

Their flight to Edinburgh leaves the next morning, so John signs out for a couple of hours and goes to see if he can find Ronon a suit for the funeral, and some other clothes. It would be pushing it to try to get Ronon out of the mountain another time before they go. He knows he must look odd, prowling around the department stores and the Gap, trying to find jeans and t-shirts that will fit Ronon's almost-superhuman frame. He finally picks out a few things that he think will work, that Ronon won't hate too much, and reluctantly wades through the suits until he finds one that is a) navy, and b) big enough that Ronon won't look completely ridiculous.

When he gets back to the mountain, he lays the clothes out on the bed. Ronon's eyebrow quirks up, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Those look uncomfortable," he says with a growl that John knows, by now, is absolutely for show.

"Well, if you leave the mountain in the leather, people are either going to think you're a professional wrestler or a dungeon master, and the SGC isn't going for that. So deal."

Ronon doesn't say anything, doesn't nod or anything, just reaches down to pull off his tunic in one, swift move, exposing the brown skin of his belly, the light hair on his chest. John turns away, just a little, his face hot. When he turns back, Ronon has on a dark brown t-shirt that fits him like a glove, and the jeans actually look pretty good.

"That works," John says, his voice a little hoarse, that dull ache that's settled inside his chest for the last few days flaring up. "Try the suit next."

It fits.

*****

John's never had the experience of showing an alien around Earth for the first time. He imagines it was like this with Teal'c or Vala, for SG-1. Ronon's trying hard - and mostly failing - to pretend that the towering majesty of the Rocky Mountains and the sheer volume of _people_ at the airport in Colorado Springs aren't getting to him. That's it's nothing.

They get a bank of three seats on the first flight from the Springs to O'Hare, Rodney at the window, Ronon letting his too-long legs spill out into the aisle, and John in the middle. Rodney doesn't really say anything during the flight - hell, he doesn't even make a full-faith effort to berate the flight attendant for getting his drink order wrong. He just slumps over, his head against the side of the plane, his eyes fixed on the clouds, and John wants to reach out to him. Wants so much to make it better.

John orders Ronon a coke before he has a chance to make a scene, and Ronon's face is blank when he first tastes it, but he asks for another one when the flight attendant comes back. She tucks her blond hair behind her ear and smiles brilliantly at him, and brings him another coke and three extra packets of peanuts. John rolls his eyes, but Ronon doesn't seem to notice.

Their layover in Chicago is an hour and a half, and for once in the history of ever, it seems like they're going to get in and out on time. John finds himself resting his hand on Ronon's lower back, guiding him wordlessly through the throng of people waiting for flights. Ronon goes willingly, and it's easier anyway, because, despite Ronon's painfully normal blue button-down shirt and jeans, the crowds seem to part for him anyway.

Rodney and John let Ronon lean over them as they leave Chicago, Rodney pointing out Navy Pier and the Hancock Building and the Sears Tower in a raspy voice, showing Ronon the neighborhood he'd lived in when he'd been at Northwestern. A couple of hours later, Rodney taps John to stir Ronon from his restless sleep so that he can see New York, and the Atlantic Ocean, familiar in a strange way, spread out underneath them.

Ronon's hand brushes John's skin where his shirt has ridden up as he settles back down into his seat, and it takes every bit of military reserve John has to keep still.

*****

They arrive in Edinburgh at dusk - disoriented and exhausted from flying partway around the world, for the better part of a day. The city isn't like anything John has ever seen, and the air is cold and damp, the wind enough to make his skin prickle.

John's been a lot of places, all over the world, but to him, a foreign place means slick sweat, burning heat, and sand, underneath his fingernails and in his eyes and under his skin. The opposite of this lush, chilly place.

Carson's family lives about twenty miles outside of the city, among the rolling, green hills. The SGC has arranged for them to have a car, with another following behind with the casket. With Carson. Rodney seems to almost be shrinking, like it's too much, and he hasn't looked either John or Ronon in the eye since the gate room back at the SGC. John doesn't know how to fix it, and Ronon's too close, hovering right at the edges of his vision, all the time.

He knows Rodney spoke to Carson's mother, told her what had happened (well, what he could tell her, anyway) and that he'd be coming, for the funeral. He knows the funeral is the next morning, at the family church. He's been to enough of these things to know the drill, but it still feels like they're walking into the unknown. Into something none of them understand.

*****

Ronon looks good in a suit. John ties his tie for him before they leave, and if he lets his fingertips rest on the Ronon's neck, the skin hot and smooth beneath his touch, for a little too long, he's not saying, and Ronon's not either. Ronon pulls his dreads back from his face, and here, with his tattoo covered up by the neck of the ivory dress shirt, he almost looks normal. Like he belongs. Almost.

The funeral is horrible. Carson's family is Catholic, and John hasn't been in a Catholic church since he was fourteen, for his own mother's funeral. Rodney sits at John's side, ramrod straight, rivaling John's worst commanders, staring ahead with an almost vacant look on his face. John finally pushes past whatever's paralyzing him about halfway through, and drapes his arm over Rodney's shoulders, holding on and pulling him in until Rodney lets himself go and leans in. Ronon's at his other side, looking a little uncomfortable, but doing okay. John wonders what funerals on Sateda are like. John's always thought that the ones on Earth were a bit - off, somehow, and maybe the Satedans had figured out a better way to handle death.

John still doesn't know why it hasn't hit him, that Carson's in that still, wooden box, and that he's not coming back with them. The service is almost over when John's vision blurs, and it's confusing for a minute before he realizes that he's crying. He doesn't bother to wipe the tears from his face; it's not like it matters, anyhow.

*****

That night, after they escape the stifling confines of the Beckett post-funeral luncheon, John leaves Ronon to channel surf on the hotel television and half-drags Rodney down to the pub he'd seen a block down. He orders them each a whiskey, straight up, and they proceed to get shitfaced.

Rodney seems better after he gets a few drinks into him. At least, he starts _talking_ again, which is such a relief that John almost laughs when Rodney mutters about the damp getting in his _clothes_ and could the service have been any longer and so on. Finally, John lays off the alcohol, but lets Rodney keep going, Rodney outpacing him more than two to one, if the glasses lined up on the counter are anything to go on.

When Rodney almost slides off of his stool, telling the story of the time Carson almost killed John and O'Neill with the drones (like John wasn't very much _there_ at the time), John hoists him up and staggers with him back to the hotel.

Rodney got his own room, while John had decided to share with Ronon. He wasn't sure, when they were checking in, if it was smart to leave Ronon alone in an unfamiliar place for too long. And John didn't mind having someone there.

John pushes Rodney through the door and kicks it shut behind him, while Rodney slumps down on the bed. "Oh Christ," Rodney groans, and John goes to the bathroom to fill the small glass with water and leave it on the nightstand.

"Drink this, okay?" John says softly, yanking off Rodney's dress shoes and unbuckling his belt. "And help me get your clothes off. I don't want to be accused of compromising your virtue later."

"Right," Rodney slurs, working himself out of his pants and shirt, slow and drunk-careful.

John's pulling the blankets up over Rodney when he feels Rodney grab his wrist. "Hey," John says, smiling gently.

Rodney's looking at him, steadier than John would have though him capable of at that moment, his eyes brimming with tears. "This sucks," Rodney says, his voice breaking, and John can't do anything but nod.

"Yeah, buddy, it really does," he says, and Rodney lets himself relax back against the pillows as John tucks him in, and lets a hand ghost over Rodney's hair. "Goodnight."

Rodney's halfway to sleep already, but he nods, his cheeks wet. "'Night," he murmurs, and John lets himself out of the room.

*****

Ronon's half-asleep himself on one of the double beds in the room when John lets himself in. He blinks his eyes open and assesses, registering that it's just John before relaxing again. "How's McKay?" Ronon says, pushing himself up to lean his back against the headboard.

"Not good," John concedes, because it's the goddamn truth, and Ronon knows it.

"And you?"

John turns to glare at Ronon, because they aren't supposed to be like this. They're supposed to have each other's back and beat the shit out of each other, but they're not supposed to talk about things. Maybe John pushed it too far when they were in his quarters, gave away too much of himself and let Ronon give it back.

Fuck. John sighs and drops down to sit on his bed. "I'll be okay," he says, kicking off his shoes.

"Okay," Ronon says, still intent, and John's absurdly grateful when he doesn't say anything else. John pulls off his t-shirt and throws it next to his shoes, and then his pants and socks follow. Ronon's still watching him, still looking, assessing, waiting for something.

"What?" John snaps, a little mean, but Ronon doesn't flinch. Instead, he swings his legs around and plants his feet on the floor.

"Nothing," Ronon says, but that's such bullshit and they both know it.

So John says, "Bullshit," and Ronon almost smiles. Bastard. "Jesus, why are you here? I mean, I know that Carson was your friend and that you cared about him, but still, it doesn't make sense to me." And Ronon's driving him crazy, always there, always close, always about to make John do something monumentally stupid.

Ronon shakes his head. "I came for you, John," Ronon says, not breaking eye contact. "I thought you knew."

He did _not_ know. He had no idea, and he still doesn't really understand. "No," he grinds out, almost choking on something that's rising up in his throat, "I didn't."

When Ronon stands up, John almost stands up and hightails it out of there, but he stays sitting, forces himself still, because Ronon had the balls to come here and to put it out there, in whatever way he could. When Ronon drops down to kneel between John's spread thighs, he has to close his eyes, because that's too much.

Ronon's hand is calloused, but warm and good on his skin as he trails fingertips up the side of John's neck and reaches around to hold him there. "I thought you said you weren't ready," John whispers.

"I'm ready for you," Ronon says, leaning forward to press his lips against John's. John lets Ronon kiss him for a minute before he opens his mouth, pushes back, works his fingertips between the hem of Ronon's t-shirt and jeans, and if John has imagined this (which he never, _ever_ has), it would never have been with Ronon in an outfit from the fucking _Gap_ of all places, in a hotel room in Edinburgh, Scotland, mourning the death of a good friend.

*****

Very little surprises John in life anymore, especially after discovering Atlantis and a genetic code that made him one of a chosen few, along with space vampires, but Ronon's a surprise in that hotel bed. He takes his time there, spreading John out on the sheets, stripping him carefully and slowly, when John had been expecting frantic and charging ahead, just like everything else Ronon does. Ronon takes John's mouth slowly, but then pushes his tongue in and really goes for it, and leaves John a quivering, shaking mess on the bed just from that, grinning as he strips off his own, unfamiliar clothes and lets John get his hands on him for the first time.

John wants everything, right there. He wants Ronon to help him to remember, to forget everything, and push inside John until his brain shorts out. Ronon knows that - hell, it seems like Ronon may know everything, and isn't _that_ a disconcerting thought - and knows it's not right. Instead, he buries his face between John's thighs, mouthing at his skin, and waits until John's begging, desperate, flexing his fingers in Ronon's hair, before he takes John in his mouth. John wants to fuck, but he lets Ronon run it, and he's glad he does when he comes, minutes later, in Ronon's mouth.

He tries to return the favor, moving his hand down between them, after Ronon has pushed himself back up, face-to-face with John, and Ronon obliges for a few minutes, letting John get his hand wrapped around Ronon's dick, feeling the weight, the thickness of it, his mouth watering and jaw aching just thinking about it. Then, he bats John's hand away and pushes his cock smoothly into John's hip, pinning John's wrists to the bed with his big hands until he comes with John's name on his lips, hot and wet all over the skin on John's belly.

Ronon sleeps that night wrapped around him, and John knows that it's stupid - god, so stupid - but he sleeps too.

*****

Rodney's looking worse for wear when they get the car back to the airport the next morning, and John has to curl his hands into fists to keep his hands off Ronon, who is wearing a white shirt and jeans and looks like a Gap _model_, believe it or not. He doesn't know which end is up, but while Rodney's hungover and kind of miserable for it, he's also unfurled and doesn't stare out the window of the car the whole way.

They wait in line to board the plane - they're through JFK this time, and John's looking forward to Ronon seeing New York City through the big airport windows - and Ronon flashes his (very good and _very_ fake) American passport to get on. Rodney takes the window again, and John doesn't have the heart to argue.

When Rodney falls asleep about fifteen minutes after take off, he leans into John, and John takes his weight, holding him up. Ronon's leg is up against his on the other side, from leg to thigh to hip, and John lets his fingers tangle in Ronon's on the seat, for just a moment, looking out over Rodney at the ocean and thinking of Atlantis. Of home.

*****

"How'd it go?" O'Neill says as they wait for the gate to dial Atlantis.

"Okay," John says, keeping his eyes on the swooshing blue. "I mean, horrible, but okay."

"Yeah," O'Neill says, and there's something in his voice that John doesn't know what to do with. Rodney's standing beside John, looking straight ahead too, and Ronon's there, next to Rodney, still in his Earth clothes, his leather pants and tunic in his hands.

"See you around," John says, to no one in particular, and he locks eyes with Ronon just as they step through the event horizon, knowing he'll see him on the other side.


End file.
